reapply next year, but the community center desperately needs the money now. Pulling the rug out at the last minute… it just isn’t right. Now, about the check-”
Determined to end the conversation as quickly as possible, she interrupted, “You are not going to receive any grant money. Your application was denied, and I think it would be a waste of your time, and mine, for you to reapply next year.”
His gasp was loud and clear as she hung up. She noticed Detective Buchanan was off the phone and said, “Henry was right. Peter Morris can’t take no for an answer.”
She repeated almost word for word the conversation she’d had with the man. When she was finished, Alec said, “I’ll mention him to Wincott again and make sure he’s looking at him.” He stood, rolled his shoulders, and then picked up his suit jacket and put it on.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
He smiled. “Yes, and so are you. The sketch artist is back and is waiting for us. We need to go. Hopefully, the two of you will be able to come up with a good likeness of the man who chased you.”
Her response was immediate. “Yes, okay.”
“No argument?”
She shook her head. “No, this is too important.”
“Yes, it is.”
She grabbed her purse from her drawer and was heading toward the door, where he stood waiting, when her fax machine began to buzz.
“Do you need to see what that is, or can it wait until we get back?” he asked.
“It’s probably just an advertisement,” she said, but she had already turned around and was circling the desk to get to the fax machine. “It is so rare to get a fax these days. Everything’s sent through e-mail.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was irritated that she was making him wait. He was busy buttoning the collar of his shirt and didn’t appear out of sorts over the delay.
“Do you mind? It will only take a minute. The cover sheet’s coming through.”
“No problem.” He was looking for his tie now.
“It’s on the floor by the sofa.”
“What is?” he asked.
“The tie you’re looking for. It fell out of your suit pocket.”
“Thanks.”
He headed back to the sofa. She turned to the machine. The cover sheet had dropped into the tray below. The sender line was blank, but there was something written on the subject line. She couldn’t quite make it out. She picked the sheet up and turned toward the light. A cold chill raced down her spine as she read the three words scrawled across the line: Your Murder List.
“Murder List? Oh, God…”
It suddenly all clicked. She inhaled sharply and took a step back as though that simple action would separate her from the truth.
She shook her head. “No… it couldn’t be… it’s just not possible…”
Alec heard the panic in her voice. He gently pried the cover sheet out of her hand just as the fax machine began to hum again. Page two was slowly coming through.
Regan had been so stunned by the heading on the top of the page that she missed the message, written in what looked like chicken scratches, on the bottom. Alec read it out loud: “Sorry, I can’t take credit for this one. I was too late. She was already in the mortuary. Had herself a fatal heart attack, but I went ahead and marked her off your list anyway.”
Alec was on the phone to Wincott by the time Regan held up the second page. He rattled off the fax number. “Everything else is blocked out.”
“We’re on it,” Wincott said. “I’ll see you back at the station.” He was shouting to his partner as he hung up.
Alec turned to Regan. “Murder List? What the hell is a murder list?”
She didn’t immediately answer. She was anxiously gripping her hands together as she continued to wait for the machine to spit the page out. It seemed to be taking forever.
And there it was.
Oh, God, another picture, this one of a woman lying on what looked like a metal slab. Her ashen face was peaceful in death.
It took Regan several seconds to remember where she’d seen the woman before.
“This can’t be happening.”
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“I know this woman,” she said. “She works at Dickerson’s Bath Shop on Michigan Avenue. I stopped in there a couple of weeks ago to buy a bottle of body lotion. She’s a saleswoman.”
Her knees felt as though they were going to buckle on her. She fell back against the desk and took a deep breath. Her mind was reeling.
“She was wearing a name tag… Ms. Patsy.”
“You remembered her name?”
She nodded. “She was rude, terribly rude. She was probably just having a bad day, and it was wrong of me to judge her so harshly. And now she’s dead.”
That much was pretty obvious. “Are you going to get sick?” Alec was already looking around for a trash can.
“No, no. This is all my fault.”
“How could this be your fault? If what this maniac says is true, she died of a heart attack.”
She was barely listening to him. Oh, God, what had she done? What had she done?
“Regan?”
She took another deep breath. “You read the note. He said he was too late, that she was already dead. It’s obvious to me he went after her to kill her.”
“You didn’t kill her.”
Her face was turning gray. Alec was becoming concerned she might pass out on him now. He stepped closer just in case so he could catch her if she collapsed.
“No, but I put her on the list.”
His head snapped back. “You what?”
“The murder list… it’s mine.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Regan was a little surprised he didn’t put handcuffs on her and read her her rights. Actually, Detective Buchanan took the news well, considering that she surely now was his number one suspect.
He was quite good at hiding his reactions. Had she not been looking into his eyes, she wouldn’t have noticed his attitude had hardened toward her.
She was too shaken to care what the detective thought about her. She was scared and worried and didn’t like feeling that way at all. She checked the time, calculated that Henry would be back at his desk in about fifteen minutes, and left him a note explaining where she was going. She also instructed him to call Sam Baldwin, the in- house attorney who, with an overworked staff of three other full-time attorneys, handled all the legal problems involving the Hamilton Hotels and/or any of the Madisons. Spencer jokingly referred to the attorneys as Walker’s personal team, since he was the family member who most often needed their expertise. Sam would be shocked to hear it was Regan who now needed him.
She rode in the detective’s car to the police station, and on the way she tried to explain all about the spontaneous exercise Dr. Shields had had the registrants do during the reception.
He was weaving in and out of traffic, narrowly missing one car after another. The man drove like a maniac, and she felt it was her duty as a concerned citizen to tell him so.
